Tapestry of the Parallel
by Azpidistra
Summary: Sometimes, Immortality is a burden before it is a gift, and sometimes those who accept must first learn who they are. (AU, features original characters)
1. Prologue: February 1998

Author's Notes: I only borrow Duncan and Connor, and Richie and Tessa. I swear.  
  
Cannon plotlines are going to be shot to hell in this fic. Anything beyond the first season never happened. And I shall be twisting history to my own uses more than once before this fic ends. Physics, philosophy, literature, and poetry shall get their limelight too.  
  
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February 23, 1998, Seacouver, Washington  
  
In the five minutes it took Duncan MacLeod to exit his car and to walk the short distance to his kinsman's front door, he felt the presence of a fellow Immortal. But that was to be expected; after all, Connor MacLeod was his kinsman, his mentor, the very first Immortal he had met over four hundred years earlier. But he still glanced around him, to verify that he was indeed alone. In coming here, he had left a wake of three dead bodies, every single one proclaiming he was to be the one to finally kill the 'Great Highlander', but he won against everyone. Last thing he wanted was for his unasked for death spree to follow him to here. But he saw no one.  
  
Duncan nodded, and he reached forward slightly to press upon the doorbell outside the townhouse. He quickly pushed his hand through his hair, and he situated his dark sunglasses further up his nose. He leaned forward to press upon the doorbell again, when the door opened, and for the briefest second, that 'presence' grew stronger, and Duncan forced a smile, and he cleared his head. "Ah, Connor, beginning to think you weren't home."  
  
"No, no, I'm here, Duncan lad. Come in, please." Connor stepped aside from the door, to give Duncan space to pass through the entrance. He was shoeless, with his shirt untucked. Duncan guessed from his wet hair that Connor must have just got out the shower before he arrived. "Weren't expecting you for a few more days yet."  
  
"I had some complications."  
  
Connor closed the front door, and he followed Duncan into the interior of the house. "Complications? What sorts of complications?"  
  
"For one thing, Tessa died."  
  
"I'm sorry to hear that. She was a good lass, and she was good for you. Kept you on your toes." Connor motioned for Duncan to sit, and he did on one of the couches situated in the living room. "But that still doesn't explain why you're showing up on my doorstep of all places. I would think you and Richie would be grieving together." Connor paused in his search of his last bottle of scotch. "Oh dear god, please don't tell me Richie is...?"  
  
"Richie's fine. He's with Joe. He thought it best if I talked to you alone. We both thought it best."  
  
Connor padded into the living room, half-full bottle of scotch under his arm, and glass in each hand. He placed one on the coffee table in front of Duncan, with the bottle of scotch also. He folded himself into the armchair opposite, and he placed the second glass on the same table, only three or four feet in front of him. He gestured for Duncan to pour the alcohol into the glasses, if he wanted, and he asked, "How?"  
  
"Car accident. We had traveled to Nice to celebrate our anniversary, and she was in the main part of town to buy for dinner, and a car ran her down. Didn't even stop to see if she was ok. Just kept driving."  
  
"I'm sorry, Duncan."  
  
"So am I," he nodded. "We had married, you know."  
  
"I remember you had sent me an announcement. Five years ago, was it?"  
  
"Yes. Five years ago next month." Duncan sighed, and he quickly swallowed his scotch. He reached for the bottle to pour another glass, and he inclined the bottle towards Connor, but the older Highlander shook his head. "In this tiny church we found in Paris. Darius officiated, and Sean Burns and Hugh FitzCairn were our witnesses. Richie held the rings for us, and he looked like he was ready to burst with happiness and excitement. I had been terrified he would drop the rings, but he proved me wrong. Tessa's parents threw a small reception for us at their house. Better than any wedding party could have been."  
  
"I'll overlook the fact that you invited Sean and FitzCairn over me."  
  
"They were already in Paris," Duncan shrugged, "and we needed witnesses."  
  
"I'm kidding, Duncan lad. You know that." Connor's eyes pierced into Duncan's. The younger Highlander had removed the sunglasses when he had sat, and Connor could see now that Duncan's eyes were darker in his grief than normal. "I am sorry about Tessa."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Connor held Duncan's down-turned eyes for several more seconds before he turned away. "But there were still other complications, yes?"  
  
"Yes." Duncan paused, and he looked further down, turning his hands over in his lap, and seeing –not for the first time—how the light reflected against the wedding band he still wore. "Richie died. After we returned to Paris."  
  
"Oh, hell. How?"  
  
"Shot."  
  
"Know the guy?"  
  
"No." Duncan paused again, and he again reached to pour himself more scotch. He swallowed the alcohol in one throw. "Something about a pretty girl, her jealous ex-boyfriend, and something not being resolved before Tessa and the trip to Nice."  
  
"How old is he now?"  
  
"Richie? Too young."  
  
"You'll teach him?"  
  
"Yes. I'd think the training would be good for both of us. Help us to reconnect, and help us both to heal." Duncan looked to Connor again. "We're moving back here. I hoped you might help, should we need it?"  
  
"Of course, Duncan lad. I'm always here for you."  
  
"I'm glad," Duncan nodded. "I've left three dead in my wake."  
  
"All immortal?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Connor gave a low whistle. "Didn't think you had it in you?"  
  
"Didn't have much choice."  
  
Duncan reached again for the scotch, but Connor quickly interceded, and he pulled the bottle from the table. "Oh, no. You've had enough for one afternoon, lad. Want anything more, I have water in the kitchen."  
  
"Fine," conceded Duncan.  
  
Connor paused in his retreat into the kitchen. Duncan conceding, and so quickly? For he would never admit, but Richie's exuberance often reminded Connor of Duncan when he was younger. Still did, sometimes. "Why don't you bring Richie by here sometime later this week? I'd like to see the lad, and perhaps I might be able to help you some?"  
  
"I'd appreciate it, Connor, thank you." Suddenly, Duncan sat straighter. "This isn't another one of your attempts to introduce me to some, nice woman, is it?"  
  
"Anytime," Connor shrugged. He rinsed out a glass, and he poured some water into it, before he returned to the living room, and he handed it to Duncan. "I hadn't planned to, but I could."  
  
"Don't you dare," Duncan warned slowly. He sipped at the water that Connor had handed to him.  
  
Connor gave a ghost of a smile, and he folded himself into the chair again, and he held Duncan's gaze for several seconds before he asked, "Are you staying for dinner?"  
  
"No." Duncan rose. "But thanks."  
  
"Anytime."  
  
Connor saw Duncan to the door, and he watched Duncan re-adorn the sunglasses before he slammed the car door behind him. He sighed, and he closed the door behind him.  
  
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	2. I

AN: I'm betting that I'm stepping on a few toes with one particular relationship established in this chapter.  
  
Also, please note, that while Duncan and Richie do know Joe Dawson in this fic, they met him under different circumstances, and that neither Immortal knows that Joe is a Watcher. They don't even know that the Watchers exist. Just how they did meet Joe Dawson will be revealed in this chapter. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------  
  
February 14 and 15, 1999, Seacouver, Washington  
  
In the months immediate following Tessa's death, Duncan MacLeod and Richie Ryan's relationship rivaled any father-son relation either had had previously. For those first months, they existed solely for the purpose of the other. Duncan trained Richie, and he showed the younger Immortal no mercy, but Richie found distraction in the sweat, and the swords, and the work. And, when he finally upped Duncan in a fight, he found a certain pleasure. The two men wiped away tears, and they studied photographs and memories; they passed several silences, doing nothing more than passing bottles of wine or of whiskey between them, swigging the alcohol, straight from the bottle. They often spoke without saying a word. And, they slept in the same bed.  
  
Sometimes, they slept in Richie's bed, but more often, they slept in Duncan's. But that first night they had done so, they had slept in Richie's. The younger Immortal had cried out in his sleep, and Duncan had padded in his room, to see what was the matter, and Richie had begged him to stay. They awakened the next morning to find their hands about waists not theirs, and their legs intertwined, and found a comfort in each other they never had before. They had been in Seacouver for five weeks.  
  
But before the night Duncan slept in Richie's bed, the two men first kissed. Three weeks after they had returned to Seacouver (already almost three months after Tessa's death), they had been looking through a photograph album, and drinking whiskey from the bottle, when Richie began to cry from the memories. It was a gulping crying, a crying which limited his ability to breathe, and Duncan could do nothing but hold Richie, and let the younger Immortal's tears soak through his shirt, while he rubbed Richie's back, and whispered Gaelic soothements in Richie's ears. He would not admit it to Richie that night, but he too cried. When Richie was finally able to breathe again, and he pulled away from Duncan's grasp, he found he missed the closeness, and the emotion, and something in him didn't want to go. So, he did what he would have done any other time, in any other situation, he hesitantly, and very quickly, he pressed his lips onto Duncan's, before he pulled away, and watched for Duncan's reaction. Duncan blinked, but only once, before he wrapped his arm around the back of Richie's neck and brought Richie's lips to his own again. And, in that kiss, everything seemed to make sense. Two weeks later, they slept in the same bed.  
  
In public, every gesture of theirs whispered of affection: hands lingered slightly on shoulders or arms; the words spoken carefully chosen between them, if for nothing else, for their possible double meaning. Alone, they were the same, and occasionally they sneaked in kisses. They told Connor first, at a dinner at the older MacLeod's house, and Duncan told Sean and FitzCairn, while Richie told Angie. Only later, long after everything happened, did they tell their newly acquainted friend Joe Dawson. Neither knew that Joe already suspected. They only knew that no one turned away from them for what they had found.  
  
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On the evening of February fourteenth, around the time of four-thirty in the afternoon, Richie sprawled atop Duncan MacLeod's bed, while the shirtless Duncan padded about the apartment they shared. They lived over the abandoned theatre, the theatre itself empty since the 1970s, when the cinema multi-plex had been built across town. It had only one bedroom, which Duncan insisted Richie have, while his bedroom was in the living room, separated from the main area by screens. But even while Duncan wore his jeans, the top button was unsnapped. Richie's eyes followed him, from living room to kitchen, back to living room, to his bedroom. "Her name's Lindsey?" asked Richie lazily.  
  
"Yes. Lindsey Morrow."  
  
"She's the one you met at the bank?"  
  
"Correct," Duncan stated. He stood in the doorway of his bedroom, his arms crossed over his bare chest. "You don't have a problem with me going out tonight, do you?"  
  
"No. Not like I really can, right?" Richie rolled over to his back, and he stared somewhat distractedly towards the ceiling. "It's just... well, I mean, we promised, Mac."  
  
Duncan crossed the floor, and he sat on the edge of the bed. "Do you want me to stay?"  
  
"No." Richie shook his head. "That wouldn't be fair. For either of us."  
  
Duncan leaned over, and he placed one arm on either side of Richie's body, his hands about level at Richie's chest. The younger Immortal too was shirtless. "No, it wouldn't be," Duncan agreed. His voice was husky, and his face hovered only centimeters above Richie's.  
  
"Yes," Richie whispered, and he wrapped his hand around the nape of Duncan's neck, and brought Duncan's lips firmly to his own. The fire, which seared between them, ignited both their limbs. Richie's fingers knotted themselves in Duncan's newly cut hair, and Duncan's hands inched them behind Richie's tracing patters against skin and bedsheets.  
  
It was several seconds before they pulled away, and even then, they didn't let go for several more seconds.  
  
Richie's mouth teetered on the edge of a grin, and Duncan blinked, carefully avoiding the full watch of Richie's eyes. Richie opened his mouth to swallow the sharp of intake of air, and his lips erupted into a full smile. "In that case, don't suppose I could borrow your car?"  
  
Duncan returned the grin, but he shook his head no, before he leaned in to kiss Richie again.  
  
It was an hour later that the two men emerged from the apartment both fully- dressed. Richie had his hands shoved into his pockets, and he stared into the sky. "Looks like rain," he commented.  
  
"Maybe," Duncan shrugged. "You going to be home late?"  
  
"Don't know. You?"  
  
"Probably not before breakfast."  
  
"Guess I'll cook then."  
  
"Guess so," Duncan agreed.  
  
Neither made reference to the apparent forcefulness of their words, and even when the two men quickly pecked lips before Duncan climbed inside his car, and Richie mounted his motorcycle, the two men did not look one another in the eyes.  
  
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When Richie had called Mira de Ghent earlier that day, she had told him that it was about fifteen minutes from his apartment to hers. But it took him almost thirty minutes. When he finally did find the place, and he parked his motorcycle in an empty spot, he noticed the architecture of the building channeled the Renaissance. He whistled impressively under his breath, and he began to climb the stairs to her seventh floor apartment. The building had nine floors, and no elevators. He counted fifty-two steps.  
  
Mira de Ghent was on the phone when she answered the door. She smiled broadly at Richie, and she awkwardly hugged him one handedly. "Richie, hey!" she greeted. "Come in. Hold on?" Richie nodded, and he stepped inside the apartment. "Dylan, I'll call you tomorrow," continued Mira on the phone, "...Because my date just arrived... Fine, talk to you then. Ciao." She clamped her cell phone shut, and she tossed Richie another bright grin. "Sorry. My brother. You find here ok?"  
  
"Sure. I only got lost once."  
  
"You're lucky. Most get lost at least twice." She set the phone on the kitchen counter. "Do you mind waiting a few more minutes? Dylan's call interrupted me, and I'm still not quite ready."  
  
"No, no, not at all."  
  
"Good. Have a seat," she gestured towards the couch, "I'll be right out," she added before she disappeared into the bedroom.  
  
Richie perched himself on the couch's edge, and his eyes traveled around the apartment. Two bedrooms, though he knew that Mira had turned one into her study and office, with a large common space encompassing the living room and dining room, with the kitchen on the dining room's other end. He also knew that the bedroom and office opened onto a patio.  
  
Everything about the apartment was subtle, and tasteful, much like the girl who lived here.  
  
Richie had met Mira in the town library. He had gone to pay the fee for four late books, and she had checked out books. She had been several spaces ahead of him in line, and had already been at her car when he finally chased her down in the parking lot. He had breathlessly asked her for her name, and invited her to coffee. She agreed, and they had spent an afternoon discussing art, music, history, and themselves. Duncan, Richie knew, would have been proud.  
  
He asked her out again, and again, and again. And, here it was, nine days after their first meeting, and they had seen one another ever day since. Richie genuinely liked her for her compassion, and for her astute observations, and for the sarcastic streak and for her keen sense of humor. He found her to be both passionate and understanding.  
  
He also found her beautiful.  
  
Mira de Ghent stood at about five feet and six inches, and was very deceptively slim. Her body could be described as wiry, yet strong, and she hid that strength well behind her one hundred thirty pounds. She had blue- black hair, which fell in thick waves to her lower back, an olive complexion, and silver-blue eyes. It had been her eyes, and her voice, which had captivated Richie first. But while her accent was definitely European, it had elements of French, English and Belgian mixed in, for as Mira had explained to him first meeting, she had spent her childhood divided in those three countries.  
  
"Ready?" she asked, and she returned again from the bedroom.  
  
Ready," answered Richie, and he quickly jumped to his feet. He turned to Mira, and he smiled. "You look lovely," he told her. His eyes took in her mid-thigh length denim skirt, and the swatch of black fishnets visible between the skirt hem and the tops of the knee-high lace-up back boots, the black tank top and cardigan, and the black overcoat she wore. He knew from the way the coat fell, that she did not carry a sword, but then, Mira de Ghent was not Immortal.  
  
"Thank you. So do you."  
  
"I'm a guy. Guys don't look lovely."  
  
"Fine. Handsome. You look handsome."  
  
"Much better," he nodded. He cleared his throat. "I, ummm.... I kinda drove my motorcycle here. And, that's not exactly built for two people."  
  
"We could walk," she suggested. "It's probably only a couple miles from here, and it's not raining. Yet."  
  
"Sure," Richie agreed, and he offered her his arm.  
  
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When they had first planned this date, Mira had suggested they get tickets to see So Weird, a relatively new band, at least to the mainstream, which was on the last legs of its first United States tour, and happened to be playing in the Seacouver Pavilion, not far from where the new cinema multi- plex was. But unlike the multi-plex, the Pavilion was not exactly new.  
  
They had third row tickets, and true to Mira's word, the Pavilion was two, maybe three miles from her apartment building, and it only took them about forty minutes walk there, and even then, because they walked on the slower side.  
  
Both enjoyed the conversation, and Mira sang along to some of the songs. She simply shrugged and smiled when Richie asked her if she had heard them before, for he hadn't. And, afterwards, they milled around the lobby, and they met lead singer and guitarist, and the drummer, and keyboardist. Richie bought copies of the three albums for sale, and he got two autographed, while Mira bought a t-shirt, and they stuffed them into one bag, and laughed the entire way to the dinner. It was already past midnight, nearly one, and the only place they could find open was the tiny Blue bar in the center of town. By then, they didn't know how far they had walked.  
  
"Hey, Joe," Richie flipped in greeting. He and Mira dropped into two stools at the bar, and he grinned both innocently and mischievously at the bartender, and his friend. "How you doin'?"  
  
Joe raised an eyebrow. "Does MacLeod know you're out this late?"  
  
"Mac is on his own date." He grinned, but something of the mischeviousness disappeared. "Joe, this is Mira. Mira, Joe."  
  
The two shook hands, and mumbled greetings, and Richie and Mira placed their orders, and Joe gave Richie a long look before he turned to pour. But Richie ignored that.  
  
He had met Joe while he, Duncan and Tessa still lived in Paris, and long before he and Duncan had fell into the complicated pattern they now lived. Joe had worked part-time in the Shakespeare and Company bookstore there, and had helped Richie to find a wedding present for Duncan and Tessa. Several weeks later, Richie had introduced Duncan and Tessa to Joe, and while they were friends, they had never purposely made plans, but Richie had frequented the bookstore. Joe had left Paris six months before they did, and had already opened the bar when he and Duncan had arrived, and when Duncan had visited Connor that night last year, Richie had sat in Joe's bar, swallowing beer after beer after beer, refusing to register the strange looks that Joe kept shooting in his direction, or the strange looks Joe still shooted in his direction. He was used to them.  
  
Richie and Mira had four drinks between them, and they shared a basket of fish and chips before they wished Joe a good night, and started the long walk back to Mira's apartment. Richie spent the night, and it was past eight in the morning when he finally kissed Mira good-bye, and he hopped back onto his motorcycle to head home, his CDs in his leather jacket pocket. Mira watched him from the doorway before she went back inside to call her brother.  
  
Richie beat Duncan home. Quickly, he showered and he changed his clothes, and he cooked breakfast to the music of Louis Armstrong. When Duncan finally walked in, looking slightly disheveled, and more exhausted than Richie felt, they only had to look at one another's faces to know. Duncan showered, and the two men, and friends, ate breakfast in silence.  
  
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Additional AN: In terms of Duncan and Richie, they're not sleeping together. They sleep in the same bed (when both are home, and they don't have anyone else there), but they don't sleep together. But I'm still betting I stepped on a few toes. 


	3. II

February 21, 1999, Seacouver, Washington  
  
"We need to leave for Connor's at five," Duncan stated quietly. He sat at the kitchen table, mug of steaming coffee in front of him, his fingers wrapped around the rounded edges. His eyes had a slightly bleary look to them, and he found it easier to peer into the blackness of the coffee than to watch for Richie's reaction.  
  
"I know that," the younger Immortal answered. He lay sprawled on the floor with notebook paper and his textbooks spread before him. "Oh, man," he sighed, and he flipped the pages of the book, "this paper's going to be killer. Hey, Mac, did you know Martin Heidegger?"  
  
"No, why?"  
  
"This paper. We have to write about the relationship between philosophy and literature, and use two ancient texts, and two modern ones. Modern counts as anything since seventeen hundred. I have this feeling that this guy probably lived before these things even existed."  
  
"Oh?" Duncan found a grin forming around his lips. "What's your professor's name?"  
  
"Oh, uh, Pierson. Professor Adam Pierson. He's like the youngest member of the faculty there. But I swear he belongs to the club. You know him?"  
  
"Can't say that I do, no. What's he look like? Have you actually seen him carry a sword?'  
  
"Oh, man, Mac, you're doing your parental voice again. I thought we've got past that." Richie sighed, and he shut his book closed. He pulled his body into a sitting position, and he began to stretch, his legs in a straddle position, and he reached his arms to his toes. "But no, I haven't seen him carry one. But he's like... I don't know, the anti-Immortal! Probably about six feet, very lean, and he wears these really bulky sweaters over his shirts and ties. And blue jeans. He's the only one of my professors who wears jeans. It's kind of refreshing, actually. More human-like."  
  
"But you've never seen him with a sword?"  
  
"Well, no. He just kind of looked at me first day of class, and he nodded. Didn't say anything to me. I mean, I've seen him only once outside of class, and that was when I stopped in his office to ask the question about that test three weeks ago."  
  
"I remember." Duncan sipped at his coffee. "Don't worry too much about it, Rich. He seems harmless. I doubt he's really as old as he says."  
  
"Yah, I mean, I live with this really old guy. You probably have what, like three hundred years on him?"  
  
"Gee, thanks." But Duncan did grin this time, and he sneaked a glance over to Richie, who having finished his stretches, had no stood, to collect his papers and books. He saw the mischievous smile that Richie was desperately trying to hide.  
  
"I'm going to shower. Want to join?"  
  
"Ah, no, better not."  
  
"Probably a good idea," agreed Richie. But Duncan swore he heard the barest hint of disappointment in Richie's voice. "I think I may visit the library, see if I can find any more books for this bloody paper. I'll just meet you at Connor's?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
Richie nodded, and he carefully balanced his papers and books in his arms, only to drop them onto his bed, before he grabbed his towel. He paused again between his bedroom and the single bathroom, and he looked at Duncan, who still hadn't moved from his seat at the table. "Mac?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Are you ok with this? About me brining Mira to Connor's tonight? Because I could call her, and..."  
  
"No, no, it's fine. Honestly."  
  
"Ok," he nodded again, and several seconds later Duncan heard the bathroom door slam. Duncan winced slightly, and he drank more of his coffee.  
  
Twenty minutes later, Richie emerged from the bathroom, dressed, and his hair still damp. He disappeared into his bedroom again for his wallet and keys, before he padded closer to where Duncan sat for his leather jacket and helmet. He hesitated slightly. "Are you sure?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I'll see you in a couple hours then," he sighed. And he leaned down to quickly kiss Duncan on the lips.  
  
He whispered something against Duncan's lips, but Duncan swore he imagined hearing those three specific words. When he heard the front door close behind Richie, Duncan sighed, and he stood. A workout, he decided, he needed a workout.  
  
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Mira de Ghent had just stepped out from her shower when she heard the crash come from her kitchen. She frowned, and still with only the towel knotted over her body, she grabbed the baseball bat she kept behind the door, and crept to the bedroom door.  
  
A second crash sounded.  
  
With the bat tight in her grasp, Mira peeked around the bedroom doorway, and she frowned. "Dylan, how many times I have asked you to not stop in uninvited?"  
  
"Oh, a dozen, at least," he grinned. "What's with the bat?"  
  
"To hit you with," she sighed. "How'd you get in here anyway?"  
  
"Magic," he stated, but the grin he still wore ruined the serious tone he was going for. "Nice dress. Going out?"  
  
"Oh, please." She turned back into the bedroom, and she tossed the bat onto her bed. "What do you want?"  
  
"To talk."  
  
"So, talk."  
  
Dylan sighed, and he walked cautiously into the bedroom. Mira no longer wore the towel, but now a pair of panties, and bra, with a silver tank top. She frowned at his appearance, and she motioned over to the bed. He mumbled a thanks, before he sat on the spotless white coverlet. "Mom and Dad are visiting Japan next month."  
  
"I know that. They've been planning this trip for months."  
  
"To Japan, Mira? Where they still think you live?"  
  
"I know, Dylan. I'll them, soon. Just not right now."  
  
"When?"  
  
"Soon! I promise." She paused to button her skirt. It was a black one, almost schoolgirl in design, and reached to her knees. She frowned in Dylan's direction, the skirt buttoned. "Anything else you wanted?"  
  
"No... Well, just... Rebecca misses you."  
  
Mira's frown deepened. She crossed the room to search the dresser drawers for her silver tights. "I miss her too, Dyl. Tell her that."  
  
"What do you see in this place, Mir? What's so special about the Pacific Northwest, that you're risking everything?"  
  
"Freedom," she whispered, and she paused, before she added, "I need to finish getting ready. I'll call you in a couple days, ok? Keep me posted on Mom and Dad's trip, please? And, promise me, you'll let me take care of this, ok?"  
  
"Ok," he sighed. He nodded. "Have fun."  
  
He waved, before he reached into the air of the bedroom, and pulled a door. He grinned at her lop-sided, before he stepped through the door, and shutting it behind him, the air returned to normal. "Bloody show-off," she murmured. "You cannot create wormholes, you know."  
  
Mira sighed, and she proceeded to finish readying.  
  
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Richie sighed, and he tossed the books into his bag. He hadn't yet left the library parking lot. He had run into Angie while he flipped through philosophy book after philosophy book, and she had almost suffocated him, she had hugged him so hard. And, they had jabbered between the shelves, until finally both had looked at their watches, and realized they had to go. "Give me a call sometime, Rich," she had grinned at him. "I miss your bad jokes."  
  
"Yah, yah. I will, I mean."  
  
"Good, see ya," she had waved. And, now straddling the seat of his motorcycle, he sighed. Somehow, everything always seemed much simpler, and much more humorous, when Angie was around. He sighed, yet again, and he shoved his helmet on his head, before he hit the clutch, and hurried through the streets to Mira's apartment.  
  
At least, this time he wouldn't get lost.  
  
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Next Chapter: the dinner at Connor's.  
  
Coming Soon: Duncan and Richie come to a discovery about themselves, and their new relationship. Also, more with Adam Pierson! 


	4. III

February 21, 1999, Seacouver, Washington

Richie slowed his motorcycle to a stop, removed his helmet, and fluffed his hair in the yellow and red reflection of himself. He was late again. Supposed that was what he got for talking to Angie. But he was glad he did. He missed Angie.

Almost as much as he missed Tessa. Except Angie was alive, and he had no excuse not to see her again.

Fastening the helmet over the bike's handlebars, he jogged up the fifty-two steps to Mira's apartment, and smoothing his leather jacket over his blue jeans, he knocked on the door. "Hey," he smiled when she opened the door, stepping aside, a wide smile on her face, motioning for him to come inside. He leaned forward to kiss her, doing so quickly but with a tenderness that surprised even him. "Just about ready to go?"

"Just about. Just let me find my coat and keys." She closed the door behind them, and stepped further into the apartment. "We're having dinner with your friend Connor tonight, yes?"

"Correct. You'll get to meet Mac too."

"Your roommate, right?"

"Right." Richie shifted uncomfortably where he stood. So," he brightened again, "you wouldn't happen to speak Gaelic, would you?"

"I know a few words. Mostly endearments my mum and dad used from when my brother, sister and I were growing up."

"You have a sister?"

"Yes, she's younger. Why do you ask? About the Gaelic."

"Both speak Gaelic. They're from Scotland, originally, and something slip back into their brouges when they don't think I'm paying attention." Richie shrugged again, and he suddenly grinned. "They don't realize just how much I've picked up from hearing them speak it all the time."

"Well, my parents spoke the Irish-Gaelic dialect, but good for you." She stepped into her bedroom briefly, calling through the open doorway, "What time do we have to be there?"

"About five. It's only a few minutes after four now."

Mira emerged from the bedroom again, her coat on, and her keys dangling from her left hand, the keys of which, she quickly tossed into a purse sitting on the couch. She checked to see if her cellphone was already in there, and seeing it was, she zipped the purse close, and smiled at Richie. "So, how are we getting there?"

Richie's previous grin broadened considerably. "That depends. Ever ride on a motorcycle before?"

_---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

When Richie and Mira pulled into Connor's driveway, Duncan's T-bird was already there. They weren't late, Richie knew that. A quick glance at his watch confirmed that they were in fact five minutes early, which meant Duncan probably had left long before he had finished at the library. Which probably meant Duncan and Connor had been talking, talking about him and them and Scotland and mutual lost friends and non-mutual lost friends. Richie shook his head, pulled his helmet off, stepped off the bike, and turned to see how Mira had fared.

"You ok back there?" he asked. He extended a hand to help her off, but she laughingly pushed him away, standing while she simultaneously removed her helmet. "Take you enjoyed the ride?"

"Enjoyed? That was possibly the most exhilarating thing I think I've done." She latched onto his arm. "When we can go again?"

"How about when I drive you home tonight?" Richie laughed. He leaned down to kiss her. There was that rare tenderness again. He didn't understand it, but smiling he pulled slightly away, and offered her his arm, an offer this time she gladly took.

He had been hanging around Duncan for too long. He was starting to act like a gentleman.

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

They found Connor and Duncan sitting in Connor's living room, both with mugs of tea in hands, listening to quiet music in the background, talking in low tones in Gaelic. Richie smiled knowingly, and introduced Mira. He paid very close attention to Duncan's face as he did so, and for the briefest second, so quickly it was gone before Richie could be certain, he thought he saw Duncan's entire being fall. But maybe that was just because he wanted to see something of that respect. Because then Duncan stepped in after Connor, shook Mira's hand and very warmly told her how nice it was to meet her.

The dinner itself was a disaster. Mira's cellphone rang twice—both times it was her brother—both times Mira apologized profusely, "_Really, I am sorry about that. He's just worried. Our parents are leaving for holiday soon, and he thinks its our job to know their every move_." Duncan's cellphone rang once, who when seeing who it was, he promptly silenced and ignored, saying he'd call the person back after dinner, Mira was allergic to peanuts and couldn't eat the sauce Connor had prepared to go with the pasta, and Connor spent the entire time trying to engage Duncan into conversation, quietly chiding the younger Highlander when he tried to go back to their earlier conversation topic. "_Not now_," he'd say.

It was a disaster. Richie sighed. He knew this would be a bad idea. But after dinner, Mira excused herself politely to use the water closet, and Connor excused himself to see to the cake he had in the oven, which left Richie and Duncan alone on the couch. Sitting on opposite ends, Richie scooted closer, and very cautiously, reached his hand over for Duncan's. Duncan didn't pull away, which Richie took to be a good sign. He loosely knotted their fingers together but still stared straight ahead.

"You hate her," he spoke quietly.

"No, I don't hate her. Actually, she's quite a nice girl.. Exactly the type of girl I'd like to see you go out with." Duncan sighed. "I think I'm just bitter because things didn't work with Lisa as well I would have liked."

"What happened?"

"She wasn't Tessa, and I kept wanting her to be."

"So, you're jealous?"

"In a small way, a little, yes. I cann't seem to move on, Rich. You've been able to. I'm envious of you for that."

"It makes sense. You're relationship with Tessa was special." Richie paused, realizing something, he leaned in close to Duncan, bringing his other hand up to touch Duncan's chin and swing his head around slightly sot ehri eyes met. "You know I won't leave you, right?"

"I know," Duncan sighed, "I know. Amen to that much at least."

Richie chuckled softly, and leaned into give Duncan a very quick peck before squeezing his hand nd letting go, mumbling something about how he could smell the cake from in here, and greeting Mira with a little jig as she came back from the bathroom. He met Duncan's eyes over her head and smiled. Duncan's smile may have been a little forced in return, but he did smile.

Richie relaxed. Dessert was much better than dinner.


End file.
